My Grandfather’s Poem

MTNMarie F Martin_edited-1

By Marie F. Martin

Some time in the middle 1930s, my grandfather Yeats wrote the following poem.  He homesteaded a Montana flatland spread just north of Gilford, near a town named Goldstone.  In the evenings after chores, he wrote the rhythms that ran through his mind while doing endless chores in his Red Chief tablet .  The ranch is gone, the town is gone but the poems live on.  I have several newspaper clippings from the Havre newspaper and tried to scan different ones, but the letters were too small to read.  I chose this poem to share because it shows determination.  My heritage goes deep into Montana soil, but also the desire to put words on paper was passed along.  In the photo is my father on the tractor and my grandfather on the combine.  This is before  Mom and Dad were married.  Yep, she married the hired hand.

Wheat for 40 cents

By William Yeats in the 1930s

Oh, please tell me how the farmers in Montana
Can ever pay their taxes and the Rents,
And keep their poor old trucks and tractors running,
When they have to sell their wheat for forty cents?
For at that price you cannot make expenses,
And keep your equipment up in shape,

When you know its worth at least six-bits to raise it,
You can’t help that you’re Just an ape.
Now the tractor needs a set of sleeves and pistons.
For the way it is pumping oil near breaks my heart.
And I’ve cranked and cracked, till my poor back is broken,
Trying to get that cussed thing to start.

The timing gears are rattling and banging.
The old crankshaft is getting mighty flat,
The radiator leaks like a spraying fountain
And nothing that I do seems to help that.
Twas many moons ago it shed the skidrims,
The broken worn out lugs have lost their grip.

And every time the plow hooks on a boulder,
The tractor stands still while the clutch does slip.
And the old truck isn’t faring any better.
To tell the truth, its nothing but a wreck.
And some day, crossing the O’brien coulee,
I’ll have to spill and break my dog gone neck.

When in the rattletrap I go ariding,
I thank the Lord, my heart is good and stout
As in the cab I sit with nerves aquiver
A listening for the rear tires to blow out.
Yes, it sure is great to be an honest farmer
A horny-handed tiller of the soil,

But right now, I’d pass for a first class scare-crow,
All smeared from head to toe with grease and oil.
Didn’t dare to go to church on Easter,
For through my shoes the folks could see my toes.
Indeed there’s very little joy in living,
When you’re wearing gunny sacks for underclothes.

They say, of everything there is surplus,
Just what to do with it nobody knows.
Now really, if there’s such an awful surplus,
Why can’t I have a suit of Sunday Clothes.
Oh, I’m sure if people only had the money,
There’d be an awful jam in every store.

They’d soon clean up that over-rated surplus,
And have them jumping round, a rustling more.

(Originially published October 16, 2013)

A Work in Progress

Karen's author photo apr 2019

By Karen Wills

Accidents happened, varied in their seriousness. In midsummer 1925, Jim rode a seasoned bay leading a strung-out group of pack animals that included a favorite of Nora’s, the big white gelding named Cotton Two. The mild-mannered horse had been named after one of the draft animals that pulled his and Nora’s wagon when they made their long-ago journey to settle on the North Fork.

A young man from Coram sat his mount in the center of the string while a jocular boy from Martin City rode in last place. Jim didn’t dare pigtail the animals. On this steep, narrow trail heading to Camp 4, if one horse stumbled over the edge it would pull the whole line down to their doom.

Cotton Two carried four 50-pound boxes of dynamite. Jim heard the Coram boy’s shout of “Damnation and hell fire!” A horse’s scream drowned out the rest. Jim turned to see Nora’s favorite slip over the side and roll down and down, disappearing among the trees almost at once.

The boys calmed their mounts, then stopped and took off their hats. They waited for Jim to say something as they gazed woefully toward where Cotton Two must have landed. Jim’s one word, “Detachment,” seemed to puzzle them. They shrugged, replaced their battered hats, nodded with troubled expressions, and proceeded.

At Camp 4 Jim spoke briefly to Michael and helped unload supplies before he rode back to Camp 1, headquarters. He ate a thick ham sandwich for an early supper, then picked out the horse they’d named for the original Cotton’s teammate, Wink. As the sun slipped toward the western peaks, he rode Wink Two along a darkening trail.

Jim wanted to be able to tell Nora exactly how Cotton Two died. He wanted it to be true that the animal perished on impact with a broken neck. He dreaded finding it still suffering and in need of shooting.

Jim’s breath came hard. He gasped air that felt cold in the back of his throat as he approached where he calculated Cotton Two’s carcass should be. He planned to bring home the horse’s pack saddle and halter, and hoped he could handle the job alone in the dark. His heart sounded in his ears as ragged as his breath.

A familiar whinny broke the night stillness. Jim got down and tethered Wink Two to a branch. He walked toward the sound, not daring to imagine what he’d find. He stepped into a clearing full of high grass. Cotton Two stood before him in the last light of the day, the sky like a wall of ice lit from the other side. Cotton Two grazed with the solemn mien of a stoic accepting whatever fate intended for him. Except for a torn, bloody ear, and a few long scratches, the gelding appeared able to stand without pain. After running his hands over the horse, Jim felt sure it had sustained bruises, but no broken bones or life-threatening injuries.

“Cotton Two, Nora will be so pleased.” Jim, astonished, paraphrased a line from the poem, Invictus. “Your head is bloody, but unbowed.” Then he stroked the animal he’d given up for dead and rested his forehead against its white muzzle. For a long while neither of them moved.

Jim finally raised his head and breathed in the cold night air. Nora’s horse seemed a miracle that called for some act of gratitude, some bloodless sacrifice. “We want to go home, don’t we, white horse? We don’t do so well away from Nora and Evening Star. We should give these jobs of ours to ambitious youngsters. The two of us have earned our rest.”

Cotton Two nickered in full agreement.


Excerpt from Macrae’s Gold




By CatherineBrowning


Spring, 1907, Essex, Montana

Angus ‘Mac’ Macrae balanced on the moving platform connecting the passenger car to the baggage car as the Great Northern Limited engine slowed for the steep grade going through the rail yard called Essex. He wanted to go through to check on his horse in the cattle car while the train moved slowly down the grade. To be honest, he was using his horse as an excuse to check on the payroll he knew was there. He pushed on the door. It didn’t want to open. The small inset window had splotches of something all over it, highly unusual for the fastidious Great Northern Railway. Mac applied his broad shoulder to push harder until the door was open enough to edge inside. The conductor followed on Mac’s heels even though Mac was the Pinkerton agent assigned to oversee the safety of the payroll.

Lanterns lined the windowless walls. Luggage and boxes had tumbled from the racks. Mac stepped forward, catching his foot on something. He looked down. It didn’t make sense. An arm? His mind struggled with what he was seeing. He moved luggage out of the way and lifted a tarp. The guard lay on his back, arms flung out. His face was a grayish white marble, his uniform stained red with the blood that had drained from the slice across his neck. Blood covered boxes and bags that surrounded the man. Dizziness threatened Mac’s equilibrium as he looked at the nightmare before him.

A whoosh at the other end of the car snagged Mac’s attention as cold air filled the space. The payroll. Mac feared it was no longer on the train. The conductor pulled the cord that would signal the engineer to stop the train and called to the brakeman in the next car. “Get help to the baggage car! See if there is a doctor on board!”

The dizziness fled as Mac fought his way over luggage toppled into the walkway to the open rear door. He heard hoofbeats and watched as two men on matching palomino horses galloped off into the densely wooded wilderness beyond the tracks. He called back to the conductor, “Help me get my horse off the train! I’m going to follow those two.” Follow the money!

Mac was after what those men had taken, although he wouldn’t have made such a mess nor would he have killed the guard. His methods were much more refined and would have been implemented in Seattle. His skill as a cat burglar had been honed in that city so he knew how to take what he wanted and either disappear in plain sight or make it seem someone else had done the stealing. With his Pinkerton identity he could follow and apprehend the thieves with no questions asked. After all, he really was a Pinkerton agent. They paid well, just not enough for him to pay his debt and retire from their service.

Once the train stopped, the conductor and brakeman lowered the ramp on the cattle car so Mac could lead his horse to the ground and go back to retrieve his saddle and saddlebags. 

The conductor stopped him as he mounted. “What do I tell the authorities when I report the murder and theft? Where should they contact you? And do you have any idea who those men are?” He shifted from foot to foot.

Mac shook his head. “I have no idea who the men are or where they are going. Right now it seems they are headed south so that’s where I will go as well.” And if I retrieve the payroll, I might suddenly disappear.

Following was easier said than done. Essex had no amenities and there were no maps of what the conductor and brakeman on the train called ‘the wilderness’. And the wilderness was filled with towering mountains covered in snow even though spring had arrived in the valleys. Trees and brush made seeing any distance impossible, but the soil was soft–a bonus for tracking the two escaping thieves. It also gave Mac time to think. How did two saddled horses just happen to be there ready for a fast get-away? He hadn’t noticed anyone waiting and only the two rode away. Either they had help or they managed to board the train as it slowed coming down the grade. Well, he wasn’t the lawman to solve that mystery.

The peacefulness began to lull him into a sense of security, no one watching him, no enormous debt to repay. His parent’s ranch drifted into his mind. How could he not have known his father’s desperation those last years before his death? Three months remained before the bank foreclosed on the property. Just like that, the tension returned and the peace disappeared. He considered letting the bank have the property, but they told him he would still have to repay the debt. That didn’t seem right, so he struggled to pay even though much of the money he ‘earned’ was outside the law. If he missed a payment, he received a visit from an enforcer. That didn’t seem right either.

Three days later . . .

How in the world did I lose the trail? Mac dismounted and continued on foot toward what was sure to be a cliff rather than a trail. The train robbers couldn’t have chosen a better place to disappear. There were rugged peaks, waterfalls, grassy meadows, and lush forests from Essex to this place. He still didn’t see any sign of civilization and it had been three hard days. The trail had gone cold in a rocky area at least ten miles back. Fortunately the weather held the warmth of late spring that encouraged the growth of leaves and grass. The scenery was breathtaking.

And now he was hearing voices. Not a soul in sight.

A weak voice. Female?

“Help! Is anyone out there?”

Where was this person?

“God, please send help? I’m sorry I didn’t listen to Papa’s advice. I’ll go to church willingly, memorize Psalm 119 in its entirety . . .”

The voice seemed to be coming from the cliff. It turned to muttering as he drew closer. Definitely a female voice claiming she would kill her brother and give up doing ‘man things’ if she lived long enough. Mac wanted to laugh at the monologue. He peeked over the edge of the cliff. A woman was clinging to the rock face, arms quivering, forehead leaning against the rock. She wasn’t very far down, but the cliff face was shear and didn’t offer much in the way of hand and foot holds.

“Do you always talk to yourself?” Mac sucked in a breath when she almost lost her grip. He grabbed his rope and tied it to a nearby tree.

The woman didn’t look up. “Of course not! I was petitioning the Almighty for help. Did you come to help me or am I to fall to my death?”

Mac let the rope slither down alongside her. “Grab the rope! I’ll pull you up.”

“I’m not going to let go. I’ll fall.” Her voice cracked.

*  *  *

Mariah Saunders almost lost her grip when the deep voice spoke to her. She knew her reply sounded peevish, but couldn’t the ridiculous man see she was in dire need of rescue? The nerve!

A bit of dirt fell on her face and she blinked rapidly to keep it out of her eyes, but they watered anyway. She glanced at the rope that had slithered down beside her. No way was she going to grab for that. “I can’t let go. I’ll fall.” Her voice didn’t want to cooperate, cracking and squeaking like a teenage boy.

Black cowboy boots, denim-clad legs, and a torso clad in a rather dirty white shirt and a leather vest shinnied down the rope. She closed her eyes. How humiliating! She opened her eyes and almost lost her grip again. She was way too close to a face covered with a dark beard and mustache, not to mention dirt. What was a pirate doing in the wilds of Montana? A pirate wearing a Stetson? With a funny badge on the band.

He grabbed her waist and hauled her up against his side even though she continued to cling precariously to the crevices that held her up. Her fingers were numb and bleeding since her brother had neglected to add gloves to his hiking instructions. Mariah thought she would faint. She had never been this close to a man other than her father. This man was all hard muscles and didn’t smell like her father either. Papa definitely couldn’t find out about this adventure. Mariah’s insides were all shivery. 

“Let go and put your arms around my neck!” His voice sounded a bit breathless but still commanding.

“I’ll fall.” Mariah started to shake, the muscles in her arms radiating spasms to her shoulders.

“I have you. You won’t fall. I promise.”

His voice sounded wobbly as if he were struggling either to breathe or push out the words. Add embarrassment to the humiliation. She knew it! He was probably laughing at her. 

Rocks and dirt were falling on her face and hair. Wonderful! Now she would look like him . . . except for the facial hair.

Mariah closed her eyes and let go, accidentally elbowing him in the chest as she searched for his neck. She was well aware of the struggle he was having getting them both up the cliff face. She just didn’t want to watch if she fell after all. It did feel good to be hugged so close . . . Wait! What was she thinking? The man was odious. And he was probably laughing at her. She should be outraged, not wanting to cuddle closer and cling tighter. Red climbed her cheeks and turned her ears red. She knew she was red because she had seen her face when she was embarrassed. Most of her friends turned a pretty pink when they blushed. Unfortunately, she looked like their cook when she had been slaving over a hot stove.

*  *  *

Mac didn’t speak as he launched the woman onto the dirt at the top of the cliff and crawled out after her. She was shaking too hard to stand, so he left her there to recover while he coiled his rope and tied it to his saddle. When he turned around, she had opened her eyes and watched him. He smiled at her, helped her to stand, and guided her to a boulder. 

Her voice was just above a whisper. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

Was it Mac’s imagination or did she wrinkle her nose when she looked at him? It happened rather fast. Her features smoothed into the polite regard of a refined young lady. So if she was a refined young lady, what was she doing out here hanging over a cliff? Alone. Dressed like a boy.

“Well, little lady, you are welcome. May I ask your name, please?”

“Max,” she said through gritted teeth.

He laughed. “Max is a boy’s name.” She had to be joking.

The little lady stuck her nose in the air. “My Papa wanted a boy, but got me instead.”

Mac tried hard not to laugh but couldn’t suppress the grin. “Do you have a last name to go with that?”

“No, I don’t. And what may I call you?”

He couldn’t resist. “Your savior?” His guffaws filled the air. It felt good to laugh. ‘Max stood slowly. Perhaps he shouldn’t have laughed. The thunder clouds in her eyes turned her face stormy. Mac had considered getting to know a woman. He had always been afraid he would hurt the dainty little things. Well, they weren’t ‘things’, but he had never thought them to be interesting people. Until now.   

Macrae’s Gold to be released November 2020

River with No Bridge Excerpt

Karen's author photo apr 2019

By Karen Wills

Gentle Readers,

In my novel River with No Bridge, Irish immigrant Nora Flanagan comes through joyful adventures as well as tragic misadventures from Boston to Montana. With nothing left to lose she makes a last brave journey into the wilderness of the North Fork of the Flathead River to homestead. Her inspiring companion in the venture is the Chinese man, Jim Li, whom she calls her “only friend.”  This excerpt shows their first view of Flathead Lake. Enjoy.

After four hard days of travel, Jim pulled Wink and Cotton to a stop as they topped a ridge overlooking an astonishing body of sunlit blue water strewn with a few pine-covered islands. White peaks of the graceful Mission Mountains rose to its east. 

“Flathead Lake,” Jim announced. “As big as a sea.”

“It shines as bright as one,” Nora said, standing to stretch and appreciate the glorious revelation. “Jim, you’ve guided us to a place stolen from paradise.”

We must take care,” Jim cautioned, “There may be spirits in such water.”

Nora laughed, then remembered his mother had drowned. Still, the land before them held such fruitful promise. In all America nothing could be more beautiful.

The horses descended to the lake and plodded past Lambert’s Landing where they would proceed by ferry the next day. Its few rough-hewn log buildings, a large one in the center, comprised the only settlement to be seen. They continued five more miles to the ranch where the man who played his fiddle at the Bond home lived with his Nez Perce wife and their daughter. He’d invited Jim and Nora to stay at his ranch when they came through,

“We’ll be comfortable here,” Jim said.

Wiry Dave Polson and his family welcomed them. Hosts and guests ate venison stew at a table outside as the mountaintops glowed pink with what Dave called alpenglow. They visited and watched the lake’s blue water tint to cherry, lavender, then indigo. Wrapped in her shawl, Nora sighed in surprising contentment. She helped with the dishes, then returned to stay outside with Jim for awhile after the Polsons excused themselves to tuck their shy daughter in. It felt comfortable for Nora and Jim to be alone now with no real need to sort out or analyze who and what they were, the pair of them.      RiverWithNoBridgeFront(2) 

Nora reminded herself there were worse traits than mystery.

Ebook now available